


Glamis Thou Art

by tazo16



Category: Macbeth - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 04:06:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tazo16/pseuds/tazo16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened before the start of Macbeth? What if Macbeth wanted to be king for a good reason?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glamis Thou Art

Death. There is so much death.  
I stand alone on the battlefield. My horse is long dead, shot down from under me. I'm surrounded my Norse soldiers, all laying dead in the ground. This battle wasn’t a victory- it was a massacre.  
I walk through the maze of the bodies slowly, carefully, making my way back to the base camp. I try not look at their young, bloody, faces. How old could these boys have been? Probably no more than 17. Too young to be fighting an old men’s war.  
King Duncan and the King of Norway have been fighting for years. Their fathers fought, and their fathers before them. It appears as if the fighting never will end.

I remember the first time I fought in the Scottish-Norse wars. I was 15, still awkward in my armor, barely able to lift my sword. I had stood next to my father, marching next to him as he sat proudly on his trotting horse. Right before the battle began, my father had dismounted, and gripped me by the shoulders.  
“My dear son,” he’d told me, looking me square in the eye, “you may get scared out there. I understand. War is no place for a young boy like you. But I’m going to be right here by your side, doing all I can to protect you. Don’t fear, and do your family proud. Make me proud.”  
I tried to; I killed my first soldier that day. I also lost my father.  
When I returned to camp after that battle. I did all I could to get him buried. But none of the Thanes would listen to me, a pipsqueak of a boy.  
“He was the Thane of Glamis!” I’d cried. “He deserves respect!”  
“A man who dies in such an easy battle as this one deserves no respect. He was weak!” One man yelled drunkenly back at me.  
They were all drunk- we had won the battle after. Everyone was celebrating. What did one man’s death mean next to the thousands of Norse we slayed?  
I didn’t feel victorious. I felt like a murderer. And that’s one thing that hasn’t changed since then.

That day, I was forced to grow up. I found my father’s body, and brought him back to our home in Inverness Castle, where he was buried in a ceremony the next day. The day after, I was named the new Thane of Glamis.  
Suddenly, I had power. I was considered a captain on the battlefield, and had a small platoon of soldiers no older than me to command. I was forced to join the private war meetings I’d always begged my father to let me come to. As time passed, the other nobles grew to respect me. I was no longer considered a child. I had respect, power. And I hated it.   
I never wanted to be in charge. I was never power-hungry. I would have given up my position long ago, if not for my last promise to my father.  
“Make your family proud.”  
My father’s last words echoed in my head with me throughout my life.   
“Make me proud.”  
Whenever I wanted to give up, my father’s words came back to me. and I would sigh, and move on. Just as I do now.

As I walk through the silent field, I stumble over a fallen shield. When I catch myself, my eyes fall on two soldiers laying on the ground, and I feel a lump in my throat. Two boys, their bodies fallen on the ground, legs and necks contorted in ways a body should never be able to bend. The two were obviously brothers, their young features almost identical to one another’s. But nothing was as heartbreaking as the pair of held hands that joined them. The brothers must have died together, bleeding from identical stab wounds just below the heart. These soldiers may have been the enemy, but I cannot bear take my eyes off their broken forms laying below me on the blood soaked field. A small tear escapes my eye, dropping neatly onto the face of one of the prone forms of the young boys.  
I feel a strong hand clamp onto my shoulder, and I jump. I turn, worried someone saw me and might mistake me for traitor. Even the slightest action is considered consorting with the enemy now. MacDonald, the Thane of Cawdor, was executed for less. His heinous crime was refusing to crush the hand of a caught spy beneath his boot. The boy was 14.   
I was forced to take MacDonald to the edge of the cliff, stab him, and push him to his death. In the end, MacDonald gave me a sad smile, and jumped himself, before I was forced to kill him. As he fell, he cried for heaven to forgive him for murdering the youth.

I shake my head to disperse the memory, and give a sigh of relief that the hand belongs to Banquo, my only friend in all this. He looks down at the sight of the dead brothers, and just shakes his head.  
“We must not dwell on what we cannot change,” He says, and I nod numbly. I know he is right.  
“But just think.” I said in a broken voice. “If one of us were king, we could end this madness for good!”  
“I know, my friend, I know. But all we can do know is do what good we can, and do our families proud.”  
Banquo’s story is similar to mine. His father died in battle, not five feet away from him, when he was 17. He inherited all his father’s titles and responsibilities the day his father died. He never even had time to grieve.  
“Come, Macbeth. Let’s bury these poor boys, and head back towards the palace. The others will be wondering why we stayed behind.”  
We walk in search of a secluded are where we can bury the boys, carrying them gently in our arms. We find a small grouping of trees at the edge of the field, and lay them down carefully. Banquo digs the graves, and I lower them down. Banquo begins to pile the dirt back over their bodies, but I stop him.   
“Wait,” I say, and bend down over their bodies. I lift on of the boy’s and place it in his brother’s.  
“Now they can rest as they died.” I say in a chocked voice, rising slowly. Banquo shovels the dirt over their bodies, and when he finishes, I lean my head on his shoulder and just cry. Tears run down both of our faces. If only things could be different.


End file.
